Many of Darius’s people fell—yet Empire soldiers fell, too, and with bodies piling up on both sides, Darius felt as if he were gaining momentum. At least they were managing to truly attack an Empire city, and to hold their own with their forces—and that alone, he knew, was an amazing feat.
With the front of the city exposed, all of the Empire soldiers turned to fight Darius. Darius’s third and final group of soldiers finally appeared, as planned, and attacked in the front. They all waded through the waters of the canal, splashing wildly, as they pulled themselves up to dry ground inside the city walls and attacked Empire soldiers from behind.
Now Empire soldiers found themselves sandwiched between Darius’s forces on both sides—and as they did, the momentum shifted. Empire soldiers fell rapidly in all directions as Darius’s men overwhelmed them with their speed and swiftness.
The fighting went on, swords clanging in Darius’s ears, sparks lighting up the night, the sound of men crying piercing the fort. All around him, men fell. Yet still they fought and fought, constantly closing the gap.
Finally, Darius killed one Empire soldier, after a particularly brutal give and take of swords and shields, and as he did, he raised his sword and shield to kill the next one.
But to his shock, there was no one left behind him: the Empire soldiers were all dead.
Darius could hardly believe it as he stood near the front gates and turned and looked back, surveying the city. He saw all his men milling about, standing over the Empire bodies. He saw a city filled with fresh corpses, both his own people’s and the Empire’s, glistening beneath the moonlight. A city that had finally fallen silent.
The men all realized it, too. They suddenly broke out into a cheer of victory, raising their fists and torches high in the air.
They rushed forward and embraced Darius, hoisting him on their shoulders. Darius reveled in it, cheered with them, hardly believing it had really happened.
An Empire city was in their hands.
They had won. They had truly won.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Gwendolyn marched through the Great Waste, weak with hunger, her legs shaking, her skin burnt under the relentless heat of the morning suns. It had been yet another day, somehow, of marching for hours, somehow clinging to life. Krohn limped along at her heels, too exhausted to whine, and those closest to her—Kendrick, Sandara, Steffen, Arliss, Brandt and Atme carrying Argon, Aberthol, Illepra, and Stara—all still marched, too. Yet many of her people—too many—had dropped along the way, their carcasses littering the desert floor, Gwen and the others too weak to bury them—too weak to even stop. Gwen flinched every time another one dropped, and the insects suddenly appeared, scurrying from who knew where, and covered the body within moments, devouring it down to the bone. It was as if this entire desert were just waiting for them all to drop.
Gwen looked up at the horizon, seeing the perpetual red dust lingering there, searching in every direction for any sign of anything.
There was nothing.
The most remorseless, cruelest thing in the world, she realized, was not the sight of an enemy, or a monster, or anything else—but the sight of nothing. Emptiness. Lack of life.
It was unforgiving. For her, it signified death. Death not just for her, but for all of her people, all of whom she had led here.
Gwendolyn kept marching, somehow forcing one foot after the next. She summoned a strength deeper than she ever knew she had and forced herself to march on, to be strong, out in front, leading her people, like a shepherd of a flock that she knew would never find a home. Their provisions had long ago vanished, their water skins dried up, and her throat was so parched, she could barely breathe. With nothing left on the horizon, she knew there remained no alternative to death.
Gwen knew that if she were alone out here, she may have long ago lay down and allowed herself to die. It would have been more merciful than this. But pride forced her to go on. She thought of the others, she thought of her father, and she forced herself to be strong. She thought of what her father would have done. What he would have expected of her.
As she marched and marched, she began to have visions. She had flashbacks to other times, other places. She blinked and came out of them confused, not even knowing what was real anymore, where she was. The images in her mind were beginning to become more real than what lay before her.
Gwen had a flashback of her father. She saw him sitting so proudly at the head of the dining table, young, at the height of his power, wearing his crown, his mantle, his beard still without gray, laughing that hearty laugh that always put her at ease. Around the table sat also her mother, at his right, healthy and happy, as Gwendolyn remembered her long before her sickness. Sitting there, also, were her brothers and sisters—Kendrick, Gareth, Godfrey, Reece, and Luanda—the six of them all still young, all still managing to get along, all around the table with their parents looking down at them.
“Here’s to your beloved mother!” her father said, raising a cup, laughing, drinking his wine, her mother smiling, leaning in to kiss him.
“And here’s to our six wonderful children—each and every one of them fit to rule the kingdom,” her mother added.
“When will
I
be Queen?” Luanda asked.
Her father looked at Luanda, still a child, and he laughed.
“Just wait, my child. One day you will be Queen. You needn’t rush!”
He then turned to Gwendolyn.
“And you, Gwendolyn?” he asked, looking at her.
Gwendolyn looked at him and blushed.
“I do not wish to be Queen, Father. I only wish to be your daughter.”
Her father slowly lowered his cup as he looked back at her, and she could see in his eyes a look that she would never forget. She could see how touched he was, how much her words had meant to him, how they had gone right into his heart. He looked back at her with such love, loyalty, and admiration, and that look went right through her. It had sustained her, all her life.
“You have already accomplished that, my child. That and far more.”
A hot blast of wind whipped Gwendolyn in the face and she blinked, snapping out of it, coughing, dust in her eyes and mouth. Her breathing raspy, she rubbed the dust from her eyes as it nearly sealed them shut, trying to pry it out. The wind brought no relief—but only more heat, if possible. Enough heat even to snap her out of a nicer place.
Gwen did not even want to look up, too afraid to see nothing, to be disappointed once again. But she forced herself to, hoping this time it would be different, that perhaps somehow a distant something would be on the horizon, a lake to drink from, a tree to shade them, even a cave.
She looked up, bracing herself, and wished she hadn’t: there was nothing. Merciless, cruel nothing.
Yet something else caught her eye: she looked up, and saw a sudden shadow crossing overhead. It seemed to be the only cloud in a cloudless sky, and at first she was confused by it. Was she seeing things?
But she watched it pass by overhead, and was sure it was real, and she was even more confused. It was not a cloud, but a black shadow, flying through the air. It went by so fast, she could hardly tell its shape, but it swooped down toward her, then swooped up just as quickly, and as she blinked into the sun, she could have sworn it looked like a demon.
Like a demon released from hell.
Gwen turned to follow it with her eyes, but just as quickly, it flew away, disappearing quickly from sight.
Gwen felt a chill, felt it was an omen of something terrible to come. As it had flown close to her, she had the most awful feeling, as if she had been cursed by the creature.
“ENOUGH!” suddenly shouted a voice.
It was a violent shriek, a shriek of desperation. Gwen recognized it immediately as the shriek of a man who had lost his mind, who had nothing left to lose.
Gwendolyn turned, Krohn at her side, snarling protectively, and saw Aslin, leading a small mob of her people, and charging toward her, looking mad, delusional, touched by the sun.
“Better to have died in the Ring, in peace with our fathers, and be buried in good soil. Now we shall die here, and be buried nowhere. We shall become nothing but food for the scorpions and the spiders. If I am to die here, it won’t be before I kill her first! Blood calls for blood!”
He drew his sword, the sound cutting into the air, raised it high.
“Kill the Queen!” he yelled, and let out a great shout.
To Gwendolyn’s shock and horror, behind him several hundred of her people followed, drawing their swords, shouting in approval, joining him. More than half of her people rallied behind him, and all began to charge her.
Gwen didn’t have the energy left to resist. She stood there and awaited her fate. If her people all wanted her dead, then so be it. She would give them what they wanted. Even this.
Gwendolyn was not so surprised that he wanted to kill her; she was more surprised that he still had that much energy left in him, could run so fast and reserve so much energy to hate her. He was hardly ten yards away and he moved so fast that the others, so lethargic, had no time to react. She could see in his eyes how much he hated her, how much he wanted her dead. It was like a knife in her heart to see that anyone could hate her that much in the world. What had she done so wrong? Hadn’t she tried to be the best person to everyone that she could?
Gwen had thought she had been a good Queen; she had tried desperately to save her people, every step of the way. She had even sacrificed herself, back in Silesia, to Andronicus, so that the others could live. She had tried to do everything right.
And yet here she was, this was how she ended up: in the midst of the Empire, in the midst of a waste land, searching for a Second Ring that likely didn’t even exist, torn apart from her husband, from her child. Most of her people hating her, wanting her dead.
Gwen stood there proudly, faced Aslin, and braced herself, unflinching, as he approached her with his deadly blow. He raised his sword high in both hands, but a few yards away, and began to plunge down, right for her heart.
Suddenly, there came a great clang. Gwen looked up to see Steffen stepping forward and blocking the blow, slashing the sword from Aslin’s hands, cutting it in half, sending it to the ground. At the same moment, Kendrick appeared on her other side, and thrust his sword through Aslin’s heart. Krohn, too, burst into action, leaping onto Aslin’s chest and sinking his fangs into Aslin’s throat, driving him down to the ground, killing him.
The three of them were all before here, all three rushing to kill anyone who got close to her.
Gwen stood there blinking, overwhelmed with love and gratitude for Steffen, Kendrick, and Krohn, all of whom had saved her life, yet again.
But the fight was just beginning. All around her, battle cries arose as the unruly mob of half of her people charged forward, even without Aslin, the momentum he started unable to be stopped. They all charged blindly for her, none thinking clearly, as if killing her could somehow change their plight.
Yet at the same time, the other half of her people, over a hundred strong, including Kendrick, Steffen, Brandt, Atme and a dozen Silver, all drew their swords to protect her and attack the mob.
Gwen’s heart ripped in two as she witnessed vicious fighting erupting, man-to-man, soldier to soldier, former allies, former countrymen, men who were once as close as brothers, all turning on each other. They were all great warriors, all well matched, all going blow for blow. Swords clanged beneath the desert sky, as screams and cries arose and men killed each other brutally and the desert floor ran red with blood. They were all made mad by the sun, Gwen knew, and half of them probably did not even know anymore what they were fighting for. They just wanted to kill—and, more likely, be killed.
Steffen stepped forward and blocked the swords of two men on either side of Gwendolyn; he slashed one in the stomach then drew his dagger and stabbed the other in the heart.
Brandt stepped forward, wielding his mace with lightning speed, blocking a blow meant for Kendrick, while Atme came to his side, swung his ax and killed a man right before he thrust a sword into Brandt’s back.
Krohn leapt on all attackers who came too close to Gwendolyn, killing more men than any other.
Kendrick turned and blocked two sword thrusts with his shield, then wheeled around and used his shield as a weapon, smashing one man in the face, then turning and kicking the other in the chest, sending him to his back. As they came back at him a second time, he sidestepped and dodged their blows, and at the same time slashed each one across the chest, killing them both.
A spear fell from a dead soldier’s hand, rolling up against Gwendolyn’s ankles. She looked up and saw a man charging Kendrick from behind, a man he couldn’t see, and without thinking, she reacted: she picked up the spear and hurled it into the man’s back. The man stumbled and fell, face-first, at Kendrick’s feet.
Gwendolyn felt a pain in her stomach as she watched the man fall, one of her own people, killed by her own hand. He was a man she had known well, a local lord of King’s Court, a man who had been loyal to her father in his day. It was a sad day, she knew, for her people. She could hardly believe that starvation and madness and hopelessness could drive men to such ruin. Gwen wanted to yell at them all to stop this madness, to be civil. But she knew nothing could make it stop. It was like watching some horrible nightmare unfold before, a nightmare she could not stop. Some great evil had been set in motion, and it wouldn’t end until all these men were dead.
Men slaughtered each other left and right, the clanging never seeming to end, until finally, amidst the clouds of dust and light, there came a great stillness.
The world itself seemed to stop. Gwen looked out and saw the desert floor lined with the dead. She craved to see something moving, to see life, anything.
Instead, all she saw were corpses.
Gwendolyn looked around and was immensely relieved to see Kendrick and Steffen were still alive, along with Brandt, Atme, Aberthol, Illepra, Argon, Stara, Arliss, Sandara, and a half dozen members of the Silver. And, of course, Krohn.